


Rivals, Rebels, Corvids, Crooks

by Nimravidae



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, 18th and 19th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Bad Sex, Blow Jobs, Corporate Spy AU, Fake Identities, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Power Imbalance, Shower Sex, Slow Burn, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, White Collar Crime
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-08-10 22:34:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7863802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nimravidae/pseuds/Nimravidae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Benjamin Tallmadge<br/>Known Aliases:  John Bolton<br/>Suspected Of: Burglary, Larceny, Embezzlement, Fraud, Identity Theft, Trespassing</p><p>George Washington: Wealthy. Smart. Vulnerable.</p><p>There is only one way this can end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Characters, Relationships, Tags and Warnings subject to change by chapter.

Ben’s cock-deep in his roommate when the laptop halfway across their living room pings three times in rapid succession. He was more than prepared to ignore whatever it was signifying and chase the dull buzz at the base of his spine - but Nathan seems to have other plans.

“Fuck, _fuck,_ off. Off off off, out n’ off,” Nate alternates between swiping and shoving at Ben’s shoulder until he follows the direction and falls back against the couch with a groan. Already the adrenaline starts to burn off and leaves him feeling just sweaty and gross.

Nate doesn’t even pull his boxers back up before he darts across the room to the screen that flashes at him. Ben ignores, or at least tries to ignore, the clattering keys as he peels off the condom and bins it, hard on fading fast.

“That important?” He asks, getting nothing in response.

That’s fine though, that’s typical. Crammed together in their small cracked-wall, bare-bulbed and shag-carpeted two-bedroom, Ben’s learned quite a bit about Nate. Like how despite being a compact, sinewy ball of bones and muscle he can put away an entire pizza and a half before Ben can get the fuck out of bed to join him. Or how he can shut down everything around him but the project he’s working on until Ben’s forced to drag his ass out of the bedroom-turned-work-room and talking him into taking a shower.

Or getting dressed. Or eating, or sleeping, or fucking, or anything.

They almost graduated Yale together, before selling test answers and grade changes became too boring and high-stakes crime became far more lucrative than whatever the fuck he was going to do with a full-ride scholarship and a BA in History.

When they dropped out, they were splitting more money than they could blow. The outside transfers from make-believe family members was Ben’s idea, feeding them the money they earned from all their nefarious activities across the globe. Eventually, they had to get to the closest they had to home, take a break for a couple months, let the heat die down from their most recent haul (though, Ben must admit, watching Nate circumvent every inch of protection imaginable and sell a bank's own security system back to them was pretty hot) and let the world think they were gone.

At least for the time being, of course.

Since Nate is too busy tapping away, Ben has time to pull on a pair of too-baggy basketball shorts, pad over to the kitchen to wash his hands and face, and find a t-shirt that isn’t too rank and hit Nate’s back with a balled up pair of pants before Nate decides to give him a decent answer.

“Yes."

And by then, Ben’s totally forgotten what he even asked.

“Yes what?”

“Yes it’s that important. I set up an alert on a couple businesses to scout out our next job.”

Well, at least it would seem they weren’t interrupted for nothing. Ben perks up, crossing back over to kneel down next to him and squint at the rapidly-moving array of numbers and patterns and windows and something that looks like… security footage. Or porn.

Or both.

“And the two dudes banging in the office?”

“I’ll get to that.”

“What was your alert for?”

Nate taps the screen to show him some bunch of numbers that Ben can at least make sense of. It looks like budgeting shit, the remains of money being pushed around behind closed doors - usually means some level of corruption. Embezzlement usually, though on some fun jobs, fraud.

Ben hums, “Blackmail job?”

“I was thinking something a little more fun. And long-term, sorry.” A pause. “Actually I’m not sorry, I take that back.”

The crappy low-grade apartment is a sham. A front to their lifestyle to keep anyone from sniffing too closely at where and how they get their considerably heavy pockets lined. Cheap take out is chased with three-hundred dollar bottles of wine and their closets are filled with both their ragged sweats and stained t-shirts and suits that range from bottom-barrel rough wool blends to gorgeously tailored Desmond Merrion suits from an extended job in England.

Their personal bank accounts look flat, barely hanging above nothing with only a few idle transfers - fake jobs, fake family members. It goes along very neatly with their fake degrees, fake names all made to make them appear professional and humble all at once.

“Can you be certain we’re the only ones running this one?” Ben asks, knees cracking as he straightens his back, “I’d rather not run into Andre or Rogers's people again.”

Nate crinkles his nose and rubs his neck, probably _still_ reeling from his nasty run-in with Rodgers three years back. “Neither would I,” he says, shaking it off pretty quickly and looking up at Ben,  "it looks like I’m the only one who’s been here but I wouldn’t put it past Johnny-Boy to have already rustled through the papers. I think we’d know if he found anything though.”

“And the porn?”

“Huh?” Nate whips his head back to his screen and flicks through the windows for a second before he pulls up the still-looping footage. It’s pretty high-def, enough that there’s no confusing what’s going down for anything else.

Some skinny little thing bent over the desk, getting nailed from behind by a broad-shouldered guy in a suit.

“That’s the COO of Patriot Protection Incorporated fucking his EA a couple months ago.”

Ben makes an inquisitive noise, “So take the footage, re-package it all pretty and send it back to him with a note asking very nicely for however much money you want or we send it to every media outlet we can for free. What’s hard about this?”

“It’s not the banging-his-assistants that’s gonna rake in the dough, my precious little Magpie.”

“Then what is?”

Nate points to another spreadsheet, “It looks like someone’s been funneling fucktons-upon-fucktons of dollars into a project that has more NDAs surrounding it than a Congressman’s paternity suit. Whatever it is, it’s super secret, super expensive, not-yet-patented and I’m thinking we take whatever it is, turn it around and sell it. Either back to them, if it's really good, or to whoever bids high enough.”

“And how do you expect us to get that data?” Ben asks, knowing full well exactly how Nate expects him to get that data.

“You know how to buy plane tickets and suck dick, right?”

“You’re kidding.”

“The guy getting his ass pounded is getting hitched in France, apparently he’s going to be gone for about five months and in the meantime, Mister Washington himself is searching for a temporary fix through a couple services. I already sent them your resume, figured I might as well get ahead of the curve. Comparatively, I sent them one that’s about third-best.”

“And what are you going to do about numbers one and two?”

“I have my ways, now go pick out a suit and make it medium-range. Don’t wanna give this guy the impression that you don’t need this job.”

“I don’t,” Ben deadpans, but mentally sifts through his wardrobe anyway. He’s got one that he thinks might work - dark gray, slightly well-worn looking. Just enough fraying around the edges to be noticeable if someone was looking. He’s even got scuffed shoes to match - and if he doesn’t cut his hair… he should be able to pull off new-in-town and desperate for work. It isn’t like he hasn’t before.

Conning came easy to Ben - as did stealing - he trained himself up in the art of pick-pocketing and shoplifting when was fourteen. On trips into the city, it was easy being the skinny white kid that no one paid any attention to - at home he was the son of the local Reverend. A good boy, Benjamin and Savannah Tallmadge's third son out of five - smack dab in the middle. He did church events, dressed up every Sunday, volunteered out at every opportunity.

He didn’t need to steal - he liked it.

The thrill, the pounding in his chest and the harshness of his breath the first time he pocketed a candy bar in the 7-Eleven on Pond Path and walked out, expecting someone to yell at him and wrench it out of his hoodie and call his parents. It felt like some cheap drug, sending his mind all hazy and his fingers trembling and his feet light. And, like most drugs, soon just that little hit wasn’t enough. He needed more, more of a rush, more of a chance of getting caught. Higher risks, higher rewards.

Pickpocketing he was a natural at. He took to hiding tightly rolled bundles of cash in the loose floorboard under his bed - tucked inside an empty pack of Camels and well-concealed under a few copies of _Playgirl_ and a half-empty bottle of lube. Though luckily he never had the question answered: which would wreck his parents more to discover on their own - that their precious Silver-Star son was a thief, or gay.

The only people who ever caught onto him was Caleb - and then, years later, Nate.

“So,” he asks - now that Nate’s planning and frantic typing settled down enough that he could actually get re-dressed and move up off of the floor to the coffee table, “tell me who I am and what I need to know.”

Nate launches into it like he’s reading a file - no fake names, the interviews are set up too soon for Nate to be able to craft out a whole new identity for Ben from scratch and honestly, that’s for the best. Ben hates having to keep some fake history straight, always that nagging voice in the back of his head telling him he’s going to fuck it up and get them caught if he calls his faux-sister Maggie instead of Mary or slips up a local phrase or into an old accent.

A change of pace from how it used to be, now it was easier being Benjamin Tallmadge. It’s easier to tell them the truth and let the rest of his lies slide into place like puzzle pieces that aren’t supposed to fit together. Benjamin Tallmadge - from Setauket. They see that, see his bright blue doe-eyes and his baby-faced innocence and forget that he’s even capable of lying to them

It isn’t three weeks after, that Ben’s wearing that suit, shifting in the deceptively soft chairs, toying with his cuffs and tugging at his too-long hair. His feet shift and he glances up at the clock ticking ominously on the wall every few, carefully timed, minutes. He’s the picture of nerves, worrying his lip and checking his phone.

The secretary to his left keeps giving him sad, pitiful looks as the interviewees dwindle down around him. Some leaving with their head hanging and already pulling at their ties - others with a smug grin and a confidence in their eyes. Ben soon sees why, too. He Ben gives a firm handshake in the first interview of what promises to be a long chain and sits straight-backed and makes a small show out of readying himself and smiling.

Robert Harrison isn’t sly. His questions sound like they come copy-paste off Monster.com’s Top Fifteen Interview Questions - regardless of what Ben’s resume says already.

_“Have you ever worked as an Executive Assistant before?”_

_“What attracted you to Patriot Protections Incorporated?”_

_“What is your ideal working environment?”_

_“What can you offer that other candidates can’t?”_

He doesn’t delve, he just scribbles down shorthand notes that Ben can too-easily read upside down. Ben gives just the same cookie-cutter answers that those brands of questions deserve, carefully-timed slips and jokes that almost fall flat to make himself slightly less forgettable than half the people that milled through this guys office today.

It’s not a gamble, but it pays off with a phone call two days later - with some other guy with better questions and a better suit and a better idea of what he's dealing with. By the time he’s leaving the office a second time, Ben starts to get that prickle at the back of his neck - like something’s wrong and he can’t place what or how and he runs carefully through all the systems that could be going critical.

Was he thinking of the right resume to answer from? The right college, the right work history, the right names to drop? He dashes them off one by one in a mental checklist. Everything up until now was going just according to plan - but even as Ben shifts around in his laptop bag to find his keys, he can’t shake the feeling.

Nate’s sprawled, asleep, on the couch when Ben hip-bumps the door shut behind him and drops the bag with a semi-cringe-inducing thunk. The sound startles him awake, and Nate rubs his eyes before checking his watch and then looking back at Ben.

“You don’t look too hot.” Blunt, to the point, Ben usually appreciates it. Usually. Not as much today, however, he grimaces as he starts to strip off his jacket.

“I need you to run through their emails and see if they’ve mentioned me.” Though, maybe he could stand to sound less grave when he says it, “I want to know if they suspect anything.”

Nate sinks back down, rolling onto his side and burying his face in the cushions, “Why? You’ve only met them twice they have no reason to suspect anything - unless you went in asking them about their top-secret practices and plans and where to find them while wielding a massive sign that says ‘ _I’m a Con-Man ask me anything,’_ I think you’re fine.”

“Can you just do it? Something was off today. I want to know if I should pull the plug before the last interview, on account of much preferring to not get arrested.”

“Baby, you know I’d break you out.”

“Nate?”

“Yeah?”

“Just shut up and do it, please. I’m gonna take a very long shower, if you hurry up you can join me.”

It's not as though Ben needs to fuck to unwind. Having Nate there is a comfort in itself, but there's something particularly soothing about letting that part of his brain that tracks all the things that could go wrong shut down and pushing Nate against the wall and sinking down to his knees. It makes it all go quiet, magnifying just the harsh breathing above him and the water pelting Ben's back and nothing else.

It's almost blissful in those moments - Nate can't get it all the way silent but it's close enough for Ben when his hands fist in his hair and he pulls Ben down his length. He spits towards the drain, not even getting a chance to make to rinse his mouth with the shower spray before Nate’s pulling him up for a languid, filthy kiss. He strokes Ben off and tilts his head to nip gently down his throat, mile-a-minute mouth telling Ben how hot he is.

He comes with a shudder a tight twenty seconds before the water goes cold and Nate presses close to turn it off for him. He lets Nate throw him his towel, lets him nudge Ben towards his bed despite the fact that it’s hardly even eight.

Lets him climb up under the covers with him, waving his phone in Ben’s face, still nude and wet, “See, look. Only one result for every iteration of your name. You’re good, man, we’re still in the clear. You don’t have to work yourself up into a frenzy yet, we’ve still got months.”

But he hangs, heavy, on that small little blip, “One result?”

“Yeah, congratulations on making it past David Humphrey’s intense line of questioning, you’ll probably get a phone call or an email about it in the next few days. Looks like Washington was particularly interested in your resume, asked for a copy to be sent to him _directly.”_

Carefully, Ben picks the phone from Nate’s hands and examines what he’s been shown. The email is clear, concise and professional but something still sits wrong in Ben’s gut. He tries to talk himself out of it, setting the phone down as Nate’s hand roves over Ben’s bare ass. Ben hates ignoring his instinct, but Nate’s right - there’s nothing that’s gone sour yet, there’s no reason for him to tuck and roll out of this job.

“Just think, a couple weeks and you’ll be sitting pretty sorting emails in George Washington’s office - slowly stealing your way into his heart and then his private development projects and _then_ into the wallets of some very rich, very terrible dudes. Then we’ll be banging on a yacht off the coast of Barbados.”

“I know,” he lies and Nate doesn’t take that. He presses their foreheads together, clear, smiling eyes searching Ben’s for just a moment before they dip down to watch Ben’s lips as they part with a small, sharp breath.

“I won’t let anything happen, Ben. You know that.”

Right, Ben thinks as Nate presses against him - already the worry shutting off around the edges, there’s nothing to be concerned about. Everything’s going fine - everything’s going to be perfectly fine.

“I know.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Mr. Tallmadge, I presume?” He asks, voice low and with the commanding sort of authority that makes Ben want to straighten his spine even more - which he does._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _“Yes, sir.” Ben takes his hand to shake - firm and quick and efficient. Washington’s fingers are rougher than they should be for someone who only does office work. Ben takes a mental note of that and sits, comfortably yet tall, when he’s gestured to. Washington shifts around the papers on his desk - they’re in an almost organized clutter and he brushes them all up into a pile too fast for Ben to be able to read._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> George Washington  
> 47  
> Ex-Military  
> Incredible poker face with a noted disdain for swearing, over-indulgence, and stupidity. Dry (possibly non-existent) sense of humor, and an evident sense of devotion to his work and his staff.  
> Proceed with caution.

In stark difference to the last two interviews, Ben steps off the elevator to a near-quiet office space as opposed to some cold waiting area. There’s some clattering, some chatting but all-in-all it is nothing like Ben’s previous jobs at all. Less bustle, more business. The first step he takes is almost genuinely nervous - that creeping sensation filling him from toe to head once more.

Nate’s done his job, both in setting up what they need to and calming Ben’s nerves, but it doesn’t ever seem like enough whenever Ben realizes he’s found himself on the wrong side of the Rubicon. The receptionist had pointed him up with a smile, telling him, _“Mister Washington is expecting you.”_ And Ben had gone, smoothing over his jacket once more and straightening his cuffs. It’s the same suit he wore to his first interview, though he does not anticipate Washington noticing.

The days preceding the phone call had been spent in fervent study, hunched over print outs and scribbled notebooks with a hi-lighter between his teeth and a pen in his hand. He devotes plenty of time to muttering the motto of his supposed university under his breath - until he can say _In Lumine Tuo Videbimus Lumen_ , in his sleep. He backlogs information, lies about his dorm, his classes, his roommates, the god-damned dining hall, in case it comes up. Though, in all of his cases, in all of his jobs, in all of his lies it never once has, but it’s not a bad idea to at least fabricate a story or two.

Or fifteen.

He had fixed his cuffs that morning and looked his reflection dead in the eye.

He is Benjamin Tallmadge, 26 years old. Graduated from Elmhurst in with a degree in English. Single, living with his friend, trying to get a new start after a bad breakup in Chicago.

He fussed with his tie a little bit (a soft blue, actually belongs to Nate technically). He worked for a small start-up which went under - spent five months working under Charles Scott, worked as an assistant for an unbearably lazy guy his 3rd year. He’s qualified. He’s smooth. He isn’t going to fuck this up.

Nate offers a similar reminder from behind him, pushing himself up on his tip-toes to peer over Ben’s shoulder, “You look alright.”

Ben would be offended if that wasn’t his goal. Alright. Not great, not shabby - he was supposed to look alright, but Nate taps him to turn to face him anyway, straightening his tie and smoothing it down. Ben knows it’s just on account of the way he’s been so on edge about the job as a whole - it’s Nate’s way of soothing the both of them at once. It’s thoroughly different from Ben’s own system, but not exactly ineffective.

“Go get ‘em tiger,” he says with an affectionate punch to the shoulder.

And sure enough, Ben goes.

There, startlingly close to the top of the building, Ben keeps his head down and repeats the office number in his head a few times - just so he doesn't fuck it up already - though it's proven an unnecessary exercise. He's glanced at a few times - but no one lingers or asks him questions or even so much as greets him as he shuffle past on their way to printers or bathrooms or wherever they're headed to break up the monotony of office life.

Washington's nameplate is on his office door, in crisp clean letters, engraved on smooth, dark silver. Ben's done this enough that Nate tells him he can get a good read on a person based solely on their office nameplate. And, well, if Ben is feeling cocky, he'd say he isn't wrong. He's taken to associating faux-wood and black printed-on lettering with lackluster respect and matching loyalty. It sits like a veneer over middle-level, middle-wage, middle-fucks-to-give personalities, intending to make them feel almost significant.

The same goes for the dime-a-dozen slide-in, over-the-wall ones that adorn every bland cubicle. Peppered only occasionally with the roles of a few higher types. In his experience those ones have more dedication to their company and work than they did before they made them feel important.

But this - Ben brushes his fingers against the cool metal and tries to think about what it must mean. Clearly important - but Ben knew that, Washington is apparently heading the development of this project. No small task at all, it would seem. And Ben's research hadn't pulled up much on him at all.

Lafayette is far from the first employee Washington was fucking, the only other notable one being an intern a handful of years ago, now married and still working for Patriot Protections - about fifty steps up from fetching coffee and checking emails all day. So Washington must feel pretty secure in his job and his charms to not be worried about being caught in the act or thrown out on his ass because of some mouthy little shit who didn't get the bonus he was expecting by dropping to his knees for his boss.

Ben knocks as he muses, quickly clearing his expression into something more hesitant and nervous.

The sharp, clear, “Come in,” sounds through the door and Ben ducks his head as he slips through the door - making sure it doesn't slam shut behind him. It clicks smoothly and in place and Ben drinks in the office around him.

It’s decently sized, not quite as large as some other VP’s or corporate-types that Ben’s seen before but the emptiness makes it seem vast. There are no plants stuffed into the corners to take up space and only be watered by interns; no bookshelves piled high with unread volumes. A sparing glance around as he steps towards the desk tells him there’s no pictures, either. Not on the walls or his desk.

All-in-all, it’s simple and sharp and very minimalistic.

The man at the desk hardly looks up when Ben steps inside, but when he approaches - the man rises. And rises. And rises.

Jesus, Nate could’ve told him he was going to be working for a fucking giant - Ben lets a similar routine assessment fall around Washington as he extends his hand to shake.

He’s tall - obviously, he might say he was pushing six-five if Ben was any good with heights - broad shoulders fill out a neatly tailored suit and a lean nip to his waist. He probably works out, Ben figures, but not as much as he’d like to. Objectively, he's good looking.

“Mr. Tallmadge, I presume?” He asks, voice low and with the commanding sort of authority that makes Ben want to straighten his spine even more - which he does.

“Yes, sir.” Ben takes his hand to shake - firm and quick and efficient. Washington’s fingers are rougher than they should be for someone who only does office work. Ben takes a mental note of that and sits, comfortably yet tall, when he’s gestured to. Washington shifts around the papers on his desk - they’re in an almost organized clutter and he brushes them all up into a pile too fast for Ben to be able to read.

Clearly he’s not used to operating without an assistant - he even looks a little roughed around the edges. His tie’s a little too loose, his hair no longer neatly combed now - instead a few flyaways glint in the fluorescent lighting.

There's graying around the temples and peppered through his hair, it's not exactly premature but it throws Ben through a bit of a loop. The sharp cut of his body compared to the rounded softness of the other executives suggests a certain quality of vanity - but he doesn't attempt to hide those clear signs of aging, the hair, the frown lines, or the crows feet. Though Ben never did understand why so many of his marks went to such lengths to preserve their long-haired youth, the distinguished look is good. At least to him.

Washington makes him wait, for one passing moment then another.

“I would not usually be searching for temporary replacement help under such short notice,” He admits - though it sounds less far from a confession of any sort, “but the situation called quickly for Lafayette, my permanent assistant, and he has been continually loyal.”

“Well I hope I can at least match him in some fashions, sir. Even if it is only for a few months.”

“What do you know about the work we do here?”

Ah, right into the questions. Ben had researched this rather furiously as well. He leans forward, shifts and launches into the thin-veiled overview of what most people assume Patriot Protections Industries does: “You - well, your company as well as yourself - develop the leading software for cyber-security and in-house security systems as well. You protect banks, large businesses, small businesses, even state government buildings in Virginia.”

Washington fixes him with a cool, calm stare. Ben can’t help but notice that his eyes are very blue - flecked with green around the edges of his iris - and painfully inexpressive. He swallows reflexively, his nerves momentarily real. Ben’s momentarily reminded of an owl hunting prey in the woods. That piercing, intense stare that looks like it’s reading Ben from the inside out - even as he cocks his head it’s painfully avian and Ben has to suppress the urge to shift in his seat like a kid in trouble with the principal.

He inwardly curses himself as he averts his eyes, unable to hold the gaze any longer. Washington continues on as if this wasn’t anything out of the ordinary - and as the clock (analog, no numbers) clicks on his desk Ben realizes their little staring match had hardly lasted a second.

“Good,” Washington says, taking note in a small writing pad and flipping the top closed quickly, “so you’re already aware of what we, as a company do. And I assume you know why discretion and privacy in these matters are among our top priorities when searching for new employees - it is imperative that those who are privy to even the most innocuous of informations are those who can keep all their cards close to their chest.”

Ben makes a mental note to have Nate triple-check to make sure he’s clear for a background check.

“Which is why we’ve already run you through a background check.”

Well, fuck. He really, really hopes Nate already made sure his record is scrubbed squeaky clean still.

He trains the panic out of his face and nods, “Of course, it is only expected. I’m sure PPI is very dedicated to the protection of their customers - though I can’t imagine your assistant is given the keys to the secret catacombs.” He gives a soft, shy smile that turns slightly wooden as Washington does not respond to his little joke at all. He shuffles his papers, makes a note and instead asks another question. This time regarding Ben's duties at that fake start-up.

Which Ben parries and answers after clearing his throat and bringing his expression down to something more solid and stern. He talks, briefly once prompted, about his time at Elmhurst, about working for Scott, about the few slips Nate put in regarding his “trips” to England and Germany.

“I was a little lost after I graduated, I wanted to see what there was to offer in the world before I settled down.”

That isn’t too much of a lie. Though he does leave out the parts where he didn’t actually graduate and in fact his idea of “seeing what there was to offer” was more of a “seeing what there was to steal” sort of trip. Washington avoids another round of intense eye-contact throughout the rest of his questions - and Ben realizes this feels suspiciously like an interrogation.

His palms are sweating where he clasps his hands in his lap - Washington is careful to quickly write what notes he wants to and then close the notebook before Ben can get even half a read on what he’s jotting down. All he’s missing is the hard metal cuffs linking him to the desk and the alternating between _good cop_ and _bad cop._ Now it seems like he’s got a mixture of both sitting in front of him, looking like he knows everything about Ben. He's practically getting flashbacks to that time he and Nate nearly got busted running a job in Denver - it's almost enough to make him squirm.

“Why did you move to D.C?” He asks finally, dropping his pen onto his desk and leaning forward. Those sharp eyes flicker up and down Ben’s form momentarily, almost appraising him, and he responds but turning his shoulders in and looking down once, then back up with a coy sort of faux-shyness. He wishes he could go pink on command, but that isn’t quite in his repertoire, so instead he rubs the back of his neck and hesitates - choosing his words in a pointedly careful way.

“May I be perfectly honest, sir?”

“I was hoping you have been this entire interview.”

His laugh feels perfectly forced, only a mixture of genuine and pretend anxieties. “I uh, I needed a fresh start somewhere else. I have a friend from college who lives here. He needed a roommate, I needed a place to stay.”

“What are you running from, Mr. Tallmadge? It’s important to know what might be lurking behind _potential_ employees before we adopt such shadow into our own corners.”

“A bad break-up. My,” he clears his throat, “former significant other decided to move on to a different type of person. It wasn’t pleasant, I wanted to get away from all of the memories that were there. More so, I wanted to get away from him.”

Ben lets that dangle - trying to clamber for a read on Washington’s features as he drops that. He’s too carefully featureless, too pristine and too well-trained for Ben to get anything but a mild look of half-surprise - but he get’s the distinct impression that it isn’t from the _gay_ drop.

There’s a brief lull and Washington turns his face back towards his papers for a moment before Ben asks, his chin held high, “Is there anything else you’d like to know, Mr. Washington?”

Another long moment before he responds, “Yes, actually, Mr. Tallmadge, I’d just like to clarify something. You said you attended Elmhurst, correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And in your third year you worked for a man named Sullivan?”

Ben resists the urge to squirm and responds: “Yes, sir.”

“Mm. That would be John Sullivan, correct?”

“Yes, sir. John Sullivan.”

“Thank you, I believe that is it.”

Ben goes to stand, discretely wiping his hand on his pants leg before reaching out once more. Washington stands as well, taking Ben’s hand in a cold, crisp shake.

The trade farewells and Ben leaves feeling, strangely, like he’s the one who has been played. His gut churns against the nothing that he’d eaten that morning and he resolves himself to buy something on the way back - his mind feeling hazy and far away and slightly-drugged. His feet hit the concrete outside, the echoing words from the receptionist lingering far behind him, and his phone buzzes in his pocket.

He swipes it open as he walks, dodging a busy-looking douche in a suit with his too-long hair tied back and an over-stuffed laptop bag over his shoulder clipping Ben’s side and making him huff.

One unread email.

From the desk of George Washington.

_Mr. Tallmadge:_

_Patriot Protection Industries is glad to welcome you to their staff._

_You will be expected in my office Monday, by 8:00am. Please consider arriving early to discuss the specifications of your duties._

_I have taken the liberty of arranging an appointment for a suit fitting._

_\-- G. Washington_

Included is the details of Ben’s appointment - he skims it over. It’s do-able, an expensive place he’d looked up already and there’s a confirmation that he is to purchase two suits, charged directly to Patriot Protections. Something curls in Ben's gut, and he calls an Uber instead of dealing with public transportation and hurries home.

Nate kisses him when he walks in the door - hard and rough and congratulatory but Ben can't focus on it. All he can think of is those eyes and the notes that Ben couldn't read and the strangely specific, in-depth questions. He let's Nate drag him back to the couch, let's him arrange their bodies so that he can whisper praises and laud his success against Ben's neck - but, even as Ben dips his fingers under the hem of Nate’s shirt and pushes his tongue past willing lips, he doesn't feel like he deserves this. He feels, wholly and entirely, like he's made a grievous mistake.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Are there people I shouldn’t be trusting here, sir?” Ben intends it as a joke, disarming despite the fact that if anyone here is to be distrusted, it's him, but there’s something in the weathered, momentarily-tired gaze that tells Ben that that is true. He clears his throat and clasps his hands behind his back - straightening his spine and leveling his chin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alexander Hamilton  
> 31 Years Old  
> Youngest Assistant VP of Operations in PPI history. Washington's former bed-warmer, current confidant, occasional opponent on particular topics.  
> Charming, clever, handsome.  
> Fiercely proud, unerringly loyal.  
>  _Do not let him get too close_

Ben’s been off-kilter since the interview. He hadn’t been out of Washington’s office for fifteen minutes before he’d sent him that email - which meant what? That that final interview with Washington had been purely customary? A ruse? It makes him feel queasy just thinking about it, but Nate brushes him off like he does all of his paranoid concerns and instead turns his attentions back towards whatever thing he is currently dealing with.

Today: it was answering some questions from their elderly neighbors about their wifi while Ben stands in front of his closet, eyeing his newly done reorganization. He switched it up each job they did, just to make sure he wasn’t going to wear the wrong suit to the wrong event and be left with more inquiries than he knew how to answer. He hangs the two he’d gotten from an unreasonably quick fitting neatly beyond a divider that separates the rest of the ones he owns.

Just a few minutes after Ben had started in on his considering, Nate returns, looking slightly drained but holding two cookies. He offers one silently to Ben and joins him to stand at his shoulder and stare off into the vastness of Ben’s semi-neat wardrobe.

“He didn’t tell me to cut my hair,” Ben says after a contemplative moment, “it's too long to be professional in any setting.”

“He likes long hair, now take it,” Nate suggests, waving half of his payment under Ben's nose, “it's little old lady cookies, you never know when you're gonna get another one.”

“Even if he likes long hair he can't compromise the integrity of his workplace that easily.”

Nate rolls his eyes, “Letting his assistant have slightly-longer-than-professional hair is ‘compromising the integrity of the workplace’ now? Jesus, I'd hate to work for you.”

“You hate working for anyone, so I'm refusing to take that as an insult.”

“Well, it is one.” Nate swings around and shoves the door shut, little old lady cookies still in hand, “You're freaking out over nothing, Ben, Washington probably just thinks you're hot and probably just wants to bang you. That's it, whole story. The other interview he had was a fake so of _course_ she didn't show up. Of course they hired you, because I did my job - now, for the last time, Benjamin Francis, eat the fucking cookie or I will.”

Maybe Nate is, as always, right. It’s the only reality Ben can circle back to in moments like this, when he’s rife with self-doubt and confliction - that Nate is right. That Ben’s just overthinking this, that there’s nothing for him to get so worked up about. Ben nods once, then twice, then tells Nate to just eat the damn cookie.

Ben makes it a point not to think too much about it, the red flags and alarm bells that are going off in the back of his mind, but it’s hard. Every instinct in his body is telling him to run, to turn and bolt away from the potential danger. And Ben doesn’t listen to it. He checks to make sure his phone’s alarm is set. He checks to make sure his suit is hanging properly. He checks that his laptop bag is packed. He checks everything.

The next morning, at precisely six, Ben peels himself away from a warm, pliable, and very naked body to turn his alarm off and quietly slip to the bathroom. He does everything with a sharp and quick efficiency, knocking the sleep from his eyes with a cold burst of water and a cup of coffee. Nate had joked the night before about packing Ben a lunch on his first day of work - and Ben had sincerely thought he was kidding until he opened the fridge and found his name on a sticky-note stuck to the top of a lunch box.

Ben huffs an amused little noise, picking it up and checking it over. Inside, is just an average, kinda sad but quick lunch and - sitting right on top - the cookie from the night before. He cracks a smile and leans into the doorway to his bedroom - Nate’s curled up in a tight ball, wrapped up in an impossibly complex web of Ben’s sheets. There’s a ghost of forgotten affection, whispering through Ben’s chest at the sight.

But he tampers it down, and leaves.

He’s back at Washington’s office again at seven-thirty, knocking sharply and with much more confidence than he had the week before.

A voice, very unlike Washington’s, calls the response to, “Come in.”

This time, Washington is already standing, looking far more pristine and in control than when Ben had seen him last. The papers are cleared from his desk, his hair is neatly combed and his suit is pressed even more finely to his body. He looks fresh, in control. _Powerful,_ Ben’s mind offers, _he looks powerful._

Standing before him is a smaller, thin man that Ben vaguely recognizes as the guy who almost bowled him over when he was coming out of the building. His hair is pulled back in a low ponytail at the base of his neck and he’s looking Ben up and down with a sort of assessing gaze that veers towards a predatory challenge.

Ben instantly pegs him as the one who called him into the office, and turns back towards Washington, “I apologize for interrupting, sir, you asked for me to come in early. If now isn't a good time, though...”

“No, no, we were just finishing up. Benjamin - if I may call you Benjamin?”

“Benjamin is fine, or Ben too, if you prefer.”

Washington nods, then continues, “Benjamin, this is our Assistant VP of Operations, Alexander Hamilton. Alexander, this is my new assistant, Benjamin Tallmadge.”

Hamilton reaches for a handshake, “Do I know you from somewhere?”

“We, uh, almost ran into each other the other day, I was actually on my way out from this interview.” He takes the offered hand and Hamilton’s smile doesn’t falter at that. Ben has to admit, he is charming. Maybe he’d be suited to this type of life too.

“Sorry about that, I was in a hurry to get to a meeting.”

Ben notices, in quick succession, the the way his eyes dart down Ben’s body for a second time, the wedding ring on his finger, and the way George looks at him with a distant echo of possessiveness. This must be _the_ Alexander. The intern from years ago.

George cuts in when Hamilton releases their hands, “On your way to a meeting, which you are now as well, right, Alexander?”

“Right, right, of course, sir,” He ducks his head as he removes himself from the room - leaving only the slightly-filtered tension between Ben and George.

“He and I are very close. He’s been working me for quite some time now,” George tells him after a moment, “a very long while ago, he convinced me to hire Lafayette as my assistant - you will most certainly be seeing plenty of him in the next few months. I’d like you to consider Alexander someone here you can trust. Go to him if you require something and I am otherwise indisposed.”

“Are there people I shouldn’t be trusting here, sir?” Ben intends it as a joke, disarming despite the fact that if anyone here is to be distrusted, it's _him,_ but there’s something in the weathered, momentarily-tired gaze that tells Ben that that is true. He clears his throat and clasps his hands behind his back - straightening his spine and leveling his chin. Washington seems to appreciate the gesture.

“You’ll be spending most of today filling out paperwork with the varying departments, getting you set up in the system, log-in’s, passwords - but I would like to reaffirm what being my Executive Assistant means.”

“Of course, sir.”

Washington circles around his desk and sits, going through a similar list of all the things Ben had anticipated. Though he adds on a few, mentioning that he lacks other types of personal staff (Ben’s mind helpfully breaks down what that means: He’s paranoid about his privacy, probably high personal security, getting into his private files without him knowing is most certainly a bad idea.) and so Ben is to serve as whatever Washington needs him to serve as, whenever Washington needs him to serve as it. He’ll learn, Washington tells him, when to be what without being told.

“It isn't necessarily a requirement or a demand for you to learn,” he clarifies, after Ben promises he is a quick study, “simply a trend that I have noticed.”

Ben bows his head, a pristine image of projected submissiveness, and fills the space with another quiet and agreeable, _Of course, sir._

“And that - if I wish to throw myself to a room full of sycophants, I know where to look. Now I believe you're needed to sign paperwork with HR and then have someone help you get fully into the system. Whenever you've finished being handed about, come back to my office.”

He is dismissed and shuffled along down the long, tedious path of paperwork. First, he’s explained - in very careful and precise detail, all of the things he is to be signing in a swooping, practiced signature very unlike his own personal one. Every time he thinks he’s done, another paper gets pulled out and another long, boring word-for-word read off that’s nearly perfectly lifted from every other paper Ben’s signed in every other fake job he’s had.

“Is that it,” he asks, exasperated, after he sets down his pen and flexes his hand a few times.

“Let me check,” the guy asks for the fifteenth time and Ben swallows down a burst of rage and tries not to flip the fucking desk. “Yep! You’re all set.”

Ben exhales, and goes to stand, smoothing down his jacket and already thinking down the ways he can wheedle himself closer to Washington. Hamilton fits into his mind as an option - Washington said he was someone to be trusted, he said Hamilton was the reason he hired Lafayette. It’s a very obvious map drawn out for him, but he can’t see how that path would lead him to Washington’s private files. Maybe if he works it around a little.

He’s weighing the possibility of a threesome when the guy nods quickly and points Ben towards another room, “You need to get your badge and then someone’ll put you in the system so you can get your laptop all hooked up as well.”

Ben sags.

Over half the office has already left by the time Ben drags himself back up to Washington’s office. There was just enough waiting and bouncing around and _no, sorry, you’ve got to talk to_ this _person about that_ to keep Ben more than busy bumbling around. And all that walking back and forth through the building and through offices and office spaces was not good for his self-control. There was a purse sitting on a desk, wallet peeking out the un-latched flap as he hurried past it, a guy who unlatched his gold watch to scratch his wrist and left it teetering next to his keyboard for far too long.

An unattended office with the door open and a computer full of secrets Ben was sure he isn’t supposed to know.

And considering the amount of places this place handled, the urge to wiggle himself deeper into this is growing by the minute. He could slip in, he could copy everything on that hard drive down onto a flash drive in minutes - he could send it directly to Nate to breakdown their firewalls and have instant access to _something._

But it isn’t the job. He stares longingly into the abandoned office and tears his eyes away, sullen as he huffs himself down the hall.

He’ll talk to Nate about side-jobs later. Nate hates running them, he hates having to devote resources and spread themselves thin - but Patriot Protection’s got every damn finger they’ve got in some different pie it seems and Ben can feel the challenge taunting him from every closed door and every busy guy who bumps into him like he doesn’t exist.

Ben tries to force it to the back of his mind and knocks, softly, at Washington’s door before stepping in. He’s aware he looks frazzled - a little disheveled as the day’s worn on - and only part of it is intentional. His hair’s slipping free from where he styled it this morning, his tie sits askew and he doesn't move to fix his slipping posture. This time the office is teetering close to empty when he arrives and Washington doesn't look as though he's moved since Ben left him. He's still as pristine and clean-cut, clearly just the idea of having his assistant back was enough for him.

“That took longer than I had assumed,” he says rather flatly, and Ben almost wants to laugh. He spent nearly two hours trying to track down the person who could help him create his log-in, his badge wouldn't print and he was called back to HR to re-sign a handful of papers. He's not even bothering to fake surprise that he wasn't back by lunch.

But still, he needs to be respectful, polite and small so he responds: “My apologies, I meant to hurry the process to get back to you as soon as I could, but it seemed every system was trying to reject me today.”

“Well, I have no such plans to do that - so at least you have the one.” It's dry and almost flies right past Ben's exhausted, strung-out mind but he thinks that might have been a joke. He let's his chin tuck towards his chest and gives a little, relaxed half-smile - only a little forced, more genuine as a building ache in his lower back works itself up to a dull throb.

“What can I do for you, sir?”

“Nothing as of now.”

Ben suppresses a sigh rather well. If he'd finished and could have just bailed back home he would have - but apparently every level wants to run him through some sort of circle. He's long learned to train the annoyance from his face, avoid the tight pressing of his lips, the sharp set of his shoulders and clenching of his hands at his sides. It's difficult, but he manages - and presses just a fraction against that stony wall that's sitting at the desk with: “If you're sure, sir.”

“I am, go home Benjamin. I have a meeting at eight with Henry Laurens tomorrow morning.”

“I'll make sure nothing conflicts.”

“Good, and Benjamin - one last thing,” he adds once Ben's reached the door.

He pauses, his hand on the knob, and turns back to him.

“If you would,” Washington says, not looking up from his work, “cut your hair. Alexander gets away with it, simply because attempting get him to change it would be far too difficult a process - but I expect my employees to be…” There's a contemplative pause, lasting just a moment until Washington looks up, eyes flickering down Ben's body, “Neat, if you would.”

Ben nods, feeling an echo of validation unfurl in his gut, and leaves.

When he gets back home, Nate’s wrapped up in a stained and worn apron, leaning against their countertop, scrolling through some article on his phone with one hand and stirring a pot with the other. There’s a sort of ritualistic domesticity that comes with a job of this sort; Ben being away so much of the time and Nate being cramped up alone in their apartment with nothing but his laptop to stop him from going stir crazy. He claims it helps him feel like he’s doing more. Not that what he does isn’t enough, in fact what he does is more than enough. Without Nate there’s no jobs, without Nate there’s no protection, no backup, no research.

Ben’s told him more than enough times that without Nate, he’d be useless.

But Nate had insisted on learning how to cook - and from there, still insists on cooking on those rare nights where they don’t bother with the same four places they order take-out from or another greasy slab of pizza. Tonight must be one of those nights. Ben sets his bag down far more gently and slips slowly up behind him - pressing his forehead against the back of Nate’s shoulder.

“Hey,” Nate says - unstartled, “how was it?”

“Long. Interesting. A bored technician showed me how easy it is to disable the cameras they use in the half of the Virginia state government buildings and I spent three hours going back and forth handling paperwork bullshit. Seven un-guarded offices, four wallets sitting on desks, and approximately five buildings.”

“Ben, I know it’s hard but at least try to just focus on the job at hand.” There’s a short sigh in Nate’s voice that belies the rest of how Ben knows this conversation is going. And Ben knows, in some deep and cold part of himself what he can say to change it. He knows if he points out that Nate doesn’t know how hard it is - that Nate doesn’t know how easy it is to change plans - that Nate doesn’t know half the shit that it takes to do this job, fuck if all he did was remind Nate that _he’s_ the reason Ben had to drop out if Yale, Nate would change his mind. He’d be pissed, he’d be embarrassed, but he’d cave after a couple hours of fighting and Ben would get his way and that would be the end of it.

Ben knows where his weak points are, physically and emotionally, if he points out that Nate can’t work in the field because he doesn’t know when to stop talking or who to not make friends with - he’ll crumble just as easily as he does when Ben curls his fingers inside him just right or nips at his earlobe. He knows, and he hates that he knows.

“We could sell the information.”

“Wouldn’t make half a buck.”

“We could keep it for ourselves and steal some shit directly from the government.”

“Oooh. Treason, that’s a fun crime, right?’

“Nate,” He half-whines, letting him go and straightening behind him. Nate’s long-since set his phone down and dropped the spoon he was using to stir. He turns around in a huff, his lips already twisted into a scowl.

His arm cross - and Ben settles into the offensive if Nate’s going to play the defensive. He pulls himself up and Nate’s arms snap back down to his sides.

He huffs, “Don’t do that to me.”

“What?”

“That,” Nate waves his hand, grumbling, “reading my body language and knowing exactly what to do. Stop analysing me, Ben, I’m not your mark. Shit’s creepy.” He crosses his arms again, but Ben doesn’t do anything about it this time. He just lets himself sag as well, scrubbing his hand over his face.

There’s a moment before Ben apologizes that he knows Nate’s staring off - chewing his lip and debating if he’s going to forgive him again. He does, he always does, and he sighs, leaning against Ben and pressing their lips together. Ben kisses him up against the counter, slowly and deliberately. His fingers tangle and twine through his hair, pulling them together before Ben nudges him up. They break as Nate puts the food on to simmer, settling back and hooking his ankles together behind Ben's back.

They don't fuck. Not in the kitchen is a rule Ben set early on on the grounds of it being unsanitary, dangerous and just plain gross - but they do linger there, Ben's roving hands slipping up and down Nate's back and sides.

For a moment, just a moment, Ben wishes he could still pretend it was real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (In my head and descriptions, A.Ham is Javi's)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry Knox  
> Ruthless.  
> Main Goals: Fiscal Gain.

Getting into Washington's favor is both easier than Ben anticipated, and harder. After the previous day's running about, he arrives early - hair neatly trimmed and suit cleanly pressed - and gets just a brief, passing introduction to Henry Laurens before the office door is shut and he's left to spin his pen at his desk and pretend to be working while he idly maps out all the cameras he can see and makes little dots of them on a post-it note.

He’s distracted enough that he jolts when a throat clears above him and he has to sharply remind himself to pay attention as he looks up. Hamilton’s got the same wicked half-smirk from the morning before, tilting his head towards the office door.

Ben answers before Hamilton asks: “He’s in a meeting with Mr. Laurens, right now, sir.”

“Any idea when he’ll be done?”

“Well he has another meeting at eleven, so hopefully before then, sir.”

Hamilton pauses, his smirk slipping quickly before returning with a growing edge - clearly laced with a sort of approval. “I wouldn’t call me ‘sir,’ Ben. You’ll make the big man jealous. Tell him I stopped by, it was important, and that I’ll be back later.”

He moves to leave, but apparently another thought strikes as Hamilton turns back on his heel, right as Ben starts writing out the actual note, and reaches out his hand, “Actually, do you mind if I add something onto that?”

Ben looks down at his outstretched palm and then back up at his face and silently hands him the pen. Hamilton hunches down, pulling the paper towards himself and scribbling -- in a looped, loose writing -- a quick note before he straightens, smooths down his jacket, and bids Ben farewell.

The first thing he thinks when he squints at the addition to the note is that Hamilton has terrible handwriting. Even if it wasn’t near-illegible, it was written quickly and in a shorthand that Ben doesn’t immediately recognize; he draws on all the knowledge and talent he picked up trying to decipher Caleb’s chicken-scratch when they were passing notes in Econ years ago and tries to make something out of it.

What he gets is this: _Tlk w/ HX - Ag._

And no amount of high-school antics could help him with that. He gets _with_ and he’s pretty sure Ag is gold on the periodic table - but he mouths the letters to himself with his brow furrowing and instead opts to set it aside and fire off a quick text to Nate under his desk.

“I found something for you today,” it reads and it isn’t long until Nate’s sent back his reply -- just a single question mark. Ben figures it would be easier to take a picture than to try and type down what he’s pretty sure it says, but that feels a little riskier than Ben would like so instead he opts for his reply to be: “I’ll show you when I get home,” with a winking emoticon tagged onto the end.

Nate’s reply is an okay emoji and an exclamation point and Ben glances around himself.

He really wishes Nate had a better scope of the layout in regards to what sort of security was in this office -- but, in the words of the man himself _“It’s a security firm, sunshine, they’ve got their best shit on the inside of their own offices. I’d need to be inside to tell you.”_ And since Nate wasn’t inside -- and would never _be_ inside -- it was up to Ben to handle that too.

Apparently, Nate’s working on something that’ll help handle both of their situations, but it’s not quite done yet and it hasn’t been properly tested so Ben’s just got to bide his time and not get caught. Which is easy, considering he can’t actually do anything particularly unsavory while he’s answering emails from hopeful journalists about potential articles (already having been told who to turn down which, much to Ben's amusement, is very much all of them) and reminding someone in the Phoenix office that the time change is still three hours and yes, when Washington says one-fifteen for their conference call, he means one-fifteen in DC.

Which, since Ben isn’t actually sure whoever he’s talking to can do basic subtraction, he adds on is ten-fifteen in Arizona. He’s barely off the phone when Laurens storms out of George’s office, the door falling shut hard behind him. He doesn’t acknowledge Ben in the slightest -- which Ben is more than happy for -- and once he’s around the corner and out of sight, there's an eerie silence to the space around him. No more distant clatter or cubicle chat, no more shuffling or random beeping that could be coming from anywhere.

Ben waits precisely twenty-six seconds before making a quick copy of the note and standing up.

“Mister Washington?”

He peers in from the doorway, and, despite what must have happened to make the usually unshakable Henry Laurens so flustered, Washington looks unperturbed. The only hint of his mildly disgruntled state is the pinched brow and the faint down-curl of his lips as he stares at a folder on his desk.

“Yes, Benjamin?”

“Mister Hamilton came by while you were in your meeting, he said it was important, and he’ll be back later. Would you like me to put a meeting with him in your calendar?” He reads off what meetings Washington has today and finds a slot that, as he tells Washington, would work best.

Washington gives him a look and Ben makes a bit of a show of remembering what’s in his hand: “Oh! And he wrote this,” Ben gives it a little wave, and hands it to Washington, “would you like me to-”

He’s cut off quickly by a raised hand while Washington scans over the note: “I’ll call him now.”

Ben checks his battered watch. It’s a little past ten-forty. “Sir, you have a meeting with-”

“Cancel it. Tell Knox he knows why and if he has an issue with it to bring it directly to me. That’s all.”

He does exactly that, and Knox -- whom Ben hasn’t actually seen beyond a photograph -- growls at Ben for a solid four seconds before he gives up and clips back, “Fine.”

Alex looks significantly more angry going into the office than he had when he’d come by just a few hours ago and Ben doesn’t really see Washington until the day is nearly over. He calls more people over, he calls Ben from his office to have him order lunch, and then dinner. It’s a flurry of activity and his cell buzzes twice with Nate’s incoming messages: “I sure hope your thing you got for me is a lot like the thing I got for you,” followed by a single eggplant emoji.

People come, Washington goes, and every face is dire. Eventually, as Ben’s searching for his pen and making himself a mental reminder to pick up a pack of them for his desk (still reasonably bare, considering) Washington returns to his office alone. His shoulders have the same tight set to them, but his posture momentarily sags just enough to be perceivable.

“Go home, Benjamin,” he says, not even looking at him.

“Are you sure, sir?” Ben’s already standing, half-way to Washington’s office, but the door nearly swings shut in his face before Washington catches it.

“There’s nothing else you can do tonight. Go home. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Nate’s elated when Ben walks through the door, bouncing on his heels and beaming. He’s always been excitable but for the second day in a row Ben comes home feeling exhausted and strung out and the first thing he does is let Nate buzz around him like the over-eager fly he is and grab something to drink from the fridge. He's tempted, for a moment, to put back the beer and grab something harder - but Nate's already talking and fuck does Ben's lower back ache.

“It was abuzz today, email servers going off like crazy - by the way for all they boast about their security their emails are remarkably unprotected, which I'd assume they don't usually send confidential information via unprotected and unencrypted email but today was a bit of a clusterfuck. You said you had something for me?” Nate gets this all out in the time it takes Ben to cross their miniscule kitchen and crack open his bottle.

It’s pressed against his lips when Nate asks and Ben sets the bottle down to fish out the note Hamilton had written.

“I got 'talk' and 'with' and I'm pretty sure 'HX' might be a name, but no one with those initials works in this office. There’s one in the Chicago office, but he’s about to retire and a janitor.”

“Who gave you this,” Nate tilts it sideways, as if that would help.

“Alexander Hamilton. He's the Assistant VP of-”

“Operations, yeah. Knox, he had an off-the-books meeting with Henry Knox today according to Knox's assistant. You should gossip with her, her name's Kitty and she's very sweet, very talkative - though I wouldn't trust her word at face value that much. But there could be a kernel of truth in it.”

“HX, Henry Knox. Does Ag fall under the same method?”

“It could mean someone named AG.”

“That's what I thought, or the period element for gold,” Ben leaves his drink abandoned, “What's your thing again?”

“Right! It's about Hamilton too. So, apparently this meeting took place fucking early - like Hamilton’s wife was probably waking up to an empty bed sort of early-” Ben doesn't interrupt, but he thinks of that sweeping leer and figures that wasn't exactly a rare occurrence for her, “- and from looks of it, that’s what sent shit into a downspin today.”

“I guessed that, I gave Washington the note and he dropped all of his meetings to talk to Hamilton and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t for a friendly check-in. This means there's a deeper unrest within the company than we originally thought, which means more people on guard for whoever they think is out to get them which - spoiler, Nate - is me. There's no way I can get close enough to get anything if this is about the project, you know I don't even answer all of his emails, right? He said any email marked in red is not to be opened by anyone but him, and I haven't actually received any yet because unless someone fucks up I don't even have _access_ to them--”

Nate interjects, “It's only the second day, Ben.” But he goes ignored as Ben steamrolls on.

“How the fuck am I supposed to gain enough of his trust in four months to have any access? He is literally the most paranoid - Nate he doesn't even have a driver. Everyone else has a driver, but he doesn't like the idea of anyone having any sort of control over him _at all,_ not even to drive him from his house to his job, which, by the way, is less than a twenty-five minute drive.”

All the strength and power behind his rant abandons him in a moment, and Ben slumps back against the counter, letting the thick and heavy silence reign over them for a long stretch of time. Ben taps his fingers against the underside of the counter and Nate repeats: “It’s only the second day, Ben.”

“We’ve known more on first days than we know now.”

He shuts up when Nate moves forward, fingers wrapping around the back of Ben’s neck. There was a time that gesture would have made him stop for a myriad of reasons - the chief one being the way it made Ben’s muscles seize and his entire body lock and his brain whirr and splutter like an engine that can’t quite turn over. It used to do that, now it just makes him tense up with a hopeful little perk that maybe _this_ time it’ll work as well as it used to.

Nate doesn’t tighten his grip though, he never does.

Nate doesn’t want to hurt him, Nate doesn’t want to bruise him that way Ben needs him to. His thumb rubs circles under the hinge of Ben’s jaw and it’s only superficially soothing. It’s not particularly helpful, but it doesn’t hurt either. It’s just fine. Fine when he moves forward, fine when his hands move to cup either side of Ben’s - it’s just fine.

“What’s your real problem with this job, Ben?” He asks, and Ben just sighs and shakes his head.

“I’m being paranoid, like always, Nate. You know how I get.” And it’s true. Ben’s always been paranoid, he’s always been strung a little too tight for this job but he’s never quite gotten the hang of turning off that part of his mind that screams every single way every single part of every single job could go wrong. A constant stream of reminders of what ways he can fail, of every way he can land himself and Nate and everyone who ever helped him in a dank, mouldering prison cell for the rest of their lives.

His breath comes in sharp when he thinks too hard about it, and he tries not to but it lingers in the back of his throat like bile.

Ben can’t actually figure why Nate can’t taste it when he kisses him.

Nate’s good in bed. Ben used to think he was amazing, used to think he had everything Ben would never need. Nate’s not as mind blowing as Ben used to think he was, but he’s always enough, even tonight. Ben’s mind calms, but it doesn’t shut down in the ways he wishes it would. It used to, when they were twenty and Ben looked like a strong gust of wind would topple him and his biggest worries were a TA coming back while he’s rifling through his Sociology professor's drawers.

But now when Nate tries to pin his arms behind his back, Ben flexes his wrists and Nate lets him go.

Their problems mounted, their situations changed. Ben’s still counting the security cameras in the office while Nate works him open for too long until he’s too slick and too stretched.

He misses the burn, he misses that rushed edge of pain that cuts right alongside the pleasure that makes him choke on his own breath. And maybe it’s because Nate’s perfectly average, in every way. He’s a little short, a little scrawny with a dick that’s just _fine._ He’s not particularly thick or long, but not bad. His thin-fingered hands flex tentatively on his hips, stroke down his flank, purr whatever same four lines he always recycles every time they fuck.

Ben shuts his eyes and thinks about that job he ran three years ago. That faux-aristocrat, called himself _Baron_ _,_ pounding into Ben until he was hiccuping and choking on his sobs and Ben came so hard and so many times that he was boneless for hours afterwards. Ben lets Nate’s hand stroke over his back and listens to him moan above him.

He’s still thinking about the way Von Steuben choked him when he comes.

Nate sleeps in his bed with him, curled against him. He always starts insisting Ben curl up on him but somehow ends up with the inverse and Ben stares up at the ceiling until he falls into some distant, shallow sleep.

_**###** _

He’s not just tired when he gets up, he’s still rippling on his thoughts from the night before -- of every way they could fail. He’s glad Nate’s still asleep so he doesn’t have to pretend like there’s nothing wrong.

It lingers and nips at his heels all day, as he dances around other people, giving them memos and notes and picking up Washington’s dry cleaning, and ordering food for a lunch meeting. Everything blurs together in a way that Ben can’t distinguish and the moment he sits back down at the end of the day, he’s hit with a jolt of anxiety in the form of three words:

“Benjamin,” says Washington, “A word.”

He follows and shuts the door behind him when he’s gestured to. Whatever anxiety claws at his gut and tells him whatever mistake he’s made has been just awful enough to get him kicked to the curb and ruined all of their careful planning is also probably going to get him arrested. Shit, if they dug too deep into his background, if they scratched deep down into his finances, they’d see all the shit he’s guilty of.

Tax evasion, fraud - just to start at the top of the most obvious list. His heart pounds and Washington tells him to sit.

And he does, folding down into one of the offered chairs and that feeling of being in the principal's office returns once again.

“You have joined my staff at a rather interesting time, Benjamin,” Washington starts - his voice sounding worn and exhausted and Ben shifts pointedly in his seat.

“I have, admittedly sir,” he chooses his words carefully, “noticed that it was rather busy today.”

“It’ll be like that for a while, most likely for the entire time you’re going to be working here. As I’m sure you’re already aware, Patriot Protections is in the midsts of a large development project.” Ben opens his mouth to protest, to pretend he doesn’t know anything, but Washington continues: “Obviously, you are to tell no one I am asking this if you - however, I want to know what you hear regarding a project AG from anyone, what you hear regarding _myself_ from anyone.”

Ben swallows thick, his heart thudding honestly in his ears.

“I’m sorry, sir, are you asking me to…”

“Act as my eyes and ears around the office - there’s no need to pry about for information, however, just if you happen to hear things I would like a timely report. And remember, Benjamin,” Washington leans forward, his elbows resting on his desk. His eyes are too intense of Ben to meet still and every time he tries he feels a cold shudder building in his stomach.

Like he’s been found out, like he’s been trapped - still.

Washington finishes, “this is between you and I. We can consider it a first trial of your loyalties.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben’s reminded so viscerally of that nightmare as he walks, numbly, back to his apartment, arms crossed against the shivers that crawl up his spine despite the heat. He doesn’t let people get under his skin, he never lets people get under his skin. So why is Washington there? Needling him so effortlessly and making him question himself - Ben is the professional here.
> 
> So why does he feel so played?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Henry Laurens  
> Age: 53  
> CFO of PPI, intense. Rigid with regards to company spending, loose with regards to obvious nepotism.

The words sit heavy in Ben’s stomach as he takes his seat on the Silver line, staring unfocused at the grimy train floor while it fills around him. He wonders, distantly, if Nate’s little nicknames and barbs are all wrong. If maybe Ben isn’t the crow or the raven, but the carrion. A rotting carcass waiting to be picked apart by predators. 

Most nights, Ben gets this recurring dream. One where he’s eleven again, standing on the stairs in his parents house holding the second-place ribbon from his fifth-grade spelling bee. His dad in his study, Ben can’t ever see him but he knows that’s where he is - it’s where he always is - as he locks himself away to work on perfecting next week's sermons. Isaac is wailing in the background, loud and sharp like it’s right in his ears. Sam is shouting above him, waving his acceptance letter to UMass. William got first on track and his gold medal swings right in front of Ben’s face. John’s yelling about something that Ben can never quite understand. 

They rush towards each other, shouting victories and embracing and brushing past Ben in a cloudy, murky haze of accomplishments. They walk through him, like he’s made of mist and smoke, like he isn’t there. He knows they can’t see him, he knows they don’t notice him but no one questions it.

He opens his mouth to say something to remind them he’s there - but there’s no words. No sounds come out, even when he tries to scream. 

He always wakes up in a cold sweat and if Nate’s noticed being pushed off Ben’s chest at night, he doesn’t say a thing. 

Ben’s reminded so viscerally of that nightmare as he walks, numbly, back to his apartment, arms crossed against the shivers that crawl up his spine despite the heat. He doesn’t let people get under his skin, he never lets people get under his skin. So why is Washington there? Needling him so effortlessly and making him question himself - Ben is the professional here. 

So why does he feel so played? 

He needs a shower, he needs to sleep, he needs Nate to get out of his fucking face for five seconds - as soon as he walks through the door he’s practically crawling over him, asking him what incredibly important thing Ben had to tell him today.

Nate at least looks taken aback, blinking those big brown eyes with those thick, pretty lashes. God, Ben should want him more - he wants to want him more, he wants to want that lopsided grin and the way he trips over his own feet dashing to his _.  _ He wants to want the way Nate’s already talking, he wants to want the way his voice pitches higher whenever he gets excited. 

He wants to want him the way he used to. But that nightmare creeps at the back of his neck and Washington’s low voice echoes in his ear and tangles up his spine.

“There’s something else,” Ben tells the back of Nate’s head. “Washington wants me to report back on coworkers to see if anyones talking bad about him or the project.”

Nate scoffs, as if it isn’t a bombshell Ben’s dropping, not even looking back from where he’s running a search through all the files he has. “A double agent? Well, at least it’s something new. I told you things would work you, sunshine, now look at you, you’ve got a signed and sealed permission slip to go snooping.” There’s a pause. “Nothing yet on AG, by the way, but I’ve almost got what I’m _ sure  _ is the perfect code for a virus.”

“Almost as in tomorrow?”

Nate shrugs, hardly bothered at all by the snap in Ben’s voice. “Almost as in almost.”

Ben gets his shower, he gets his sleep, just how it always is, riddled with nightmares. 

The next morning, Ben slips his fingers into the pocket of some douchebag who takes a little too long to order and uses the twenty from his wallet to tip the barista. It makes him feel a little better, but not much.

He only gets a few moments of quiet to talk to the people he wants to - and he doesn’t actually pick up anything immediately useful. He does pocket some rumors for later use, like Hamilton hitting on Greene’s wife at the Christmas party, but there’s nothing substantial or even interesting that slips between the cracks. He’s left avoiding Washington’s gaze whenever he gives him glance, left chewing his lip as he waits for instruction after passing off papers and files, and reading the most updated version of Washington’s schedule to the man's back as he already heads towards wherever he needs to be. 

Washington reads his little bursts of anxiety as being in regards to the duty handed down, and he assures Ben one evening,  _ It’s nothing none of my previous assistants haven’t done.  _ Ben just nods, shuffles his feet and says he understands, sir. Of course, sir, he never thought Washington would send him astray, sir.

Ben feeds him little bits of nothingness. Someone makes a comment about this whole project being a waste of time, and Ben makes sure to tell him. He makes sure to stutter, and twist his hands together until Washington’s face softens and he promises, “You’re not doing anything wrong, Benjamin. It’s good you’re so dedicated.” He ducks his head like he does every time Washington says something that Ben could twist into a compliment. Smiles a little, like he does every time. 

He comes home every evening to Nate hunched over his computer, the growing stink of desperation making it pretty clear that he’s close to a breakthrough on his pet virus. Ben takes it upon himself to drop a bag of take-out in his lap and make sure he at least gets some sleep every couple nights. 

It’s a few weeks in that Ben’s quickly-hit stride is so viciously disrupted. The storm has quelled to sit them on much less choppy waters and he’s taken to starting every morning fetching Washington’s preferred second coffee of the day before he’s asked, and appearing with it in hand in his doorway. The look he gets, for just a fraction of a moment, is incredulous before it settles back into a blank-faced mask of performative stoicism. 

There’s really not much to figuring out in what order and at what times Washington usually wants something. Ben makes his schedule, so he knows how much a creature of habit he is. He prefers if he has meetings with the same people multiple times a week, that they be around the same time every day (Ben spends a few extra hours shuffling things around to make sure they all sit at the  _ exact  _ same time), he has the same disposable cup from the same coffee place sitting on his desk every day - and if he doesn’t he’s shorter and grumpier than usual.

He orders from the same restaurant for lunch, if he’s not going out and if he gets to pick where he’s going for a meeting, it’ll be one of the same three places. 

Ben’s only been there for a handful of weeks, but he thinks he’s got everything down pat about Washington. He is a professional, afterall. So he fixes his tie and stands at Washington’s office door - knocking sharply with the man's coffee in hand. Black, two packets of sugar, not added but pinched tightly between his pinky and ring finger.

There’s no response, and he cranes his neck to check the schedule on his desk. Washington  _ should  _ be in his office. His lips purse into a frown and he knocks again, this time calling out, “Sir?”

He thought had had everything down pat about Washington. How he takes his coffee, his preferred places to order catering from, how he takes his steak, how he takes his Bourbon. He hadn’t actually expected this much of an oversight, on either his or Nate’s part. They’d been so thorough, there hadn’t been a slip-up like this in a long while.

Ben had been so confident, then Hamilton walked out of Washington’s office with his hair hand-combed back and his lips a little redder. The office reeks of sex and Ben feels a quiet sort of rage fill the pits of his stomach. 

Washington looks unrumpled as he tightens his tie and shuffles papers back onto his desk. 

“Coffee? Thank you, you can leave it on the desk. I need you to reschedule my meeting with Ms. Dandridge to three.”

Ben sets the coffee on Washington’s desk. “You have a dentist appointment at three.”

“Cancel it.”

“Of course, sir.” He clears his throat after he speaks and Washington looks up, a bit sharply.

He keeps his gaze for a moment before he asks, “Do you have something to say?”

“Only that I’m glad you and Mr. Hamilton managed to come to an agreement regarding the project, sir.”

Washington makes a sound, behind closed-pressed lips, before he shakes his head with the faintest of sighs. “Alexander and I have come to an agreement to no longer discuss the past with regards to it. It was not a line of discussion that was conducive to the progression of the project.” It sounds like a coughed-up hunk of bullshit, repeat too many times to sound natural anymore. He almost feels a faint little wiggle of pity in the pit of his stomach, but it fades when Washington looks back up, clearing his throat. “It should go without saying, but I’m sure you’re aware that should you disclose whatever you  _ assume  _ you saw to anyone it would result in your immediate termination and potential contact with our lawyers regarding the non-disclosure agreement you signed.”

He tilts his head, brows knitting together. “All I saw this morning was a meeting between colleagues, sir.”

There’s a grunt of acceptance and Ben forces his lips to curl into the faint edge of a smile. “Good,” Washington says - and then he says it again. “Good. Make the updates to my timetable then see if you can find time for me to make a few calls.”

“Of course. To who?”

“I’ll be making them, I just need to confirm a few things today. Then I need you to go to the fifth floor and get me some contract files from Henry, Laurens not Knox, he should know which ones I need. Once you’ve finished I’d like my updated schedule.” George doesn’t dismiss him, but instead goes back to reading whatever file Ben assumes he’s just plucked off the ground. He’s learned, in his time already, that that’s as good as any verbal dismissal. He turns sharply, and George asks: “And one last thing - what time is it in France?”

Ben’s stride stutters and he turns around. “France, sir?”

“Yes, Benjamin, France. What time is it?”

“I’ll find out for you.” 

It’s four-fifteen in France, he learns after a quick search and sticks his head back into the office to report his findings. George barely acknowledges him before he picks up a phone, tiling his chair away from the door. 

Ben quickly finds his way to the nearest bathroom. Leaning against the door to the stall and far less worried about overhanging cameras peering over his shoulder, he shoots off a quick message.

“Do the security tapes in the office have sound?”

He has to wait a few minutes (probably another line or a drink or some other bullshit reason) for a reply. “No, why?”

“Boss is making a call to France, I want to know what it’s about.”

Ben can practically feel the hesitation on the other line, Nate weighing the pros and cons of telling Ben it’s probably a useless endeavor. It the end he gets a simple: “Have you tried asking nicely?”

“Asshole.”

“I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, can you do me a favor?” He leaves Ben with a laundry list of shit, from making sure he copies a few basic files from his computer to his flashdrive to seeing if he can figure out what model Washington’s laptop is to picking up Thai on his way home. 

The first thing, however, is the files. He makes a note of his to-do in a quick shorthand on his phone and then clears out all the messages and slips out of the bathroom straightening the cuffs of his shirt as he goes. The fifth floor is practically a carbon copy of the fourth, the same harsh lighting and half-bored buzz. Same cubicles and same desks and same dead-behind-the-eyes employees. The only difference was Laurens office a few doors down from being directly above where Washington’s is. His assistant isn’t at her desk and the office is decidedly empty, so he skims a glance over her open planner and decides to give her a couple minutes. Martha he knows, at least well enough. She got her job through the usual channels of mild nepotism, the daughter of a family friend looking to pad out her resume by chasing down contracts and answering phones. 

She clicks back with her arms laden down with files just as he’s finished reading up through Sunday in her scheduler. 

“Ben!” She squeaks, as he sweeps in to give her a hand, “Just the man I wanted to see. I hope you weren’t waiting too long.”

He gives his most charming smirk, and a shrug of his shoulder, “Morning, Martha. Wasn’t too long, and besides, I could use a little get away. Stretch my legs.”

She huffs some little half-laugh as she sets her half of the pile down and gestures for him to do the same. “Washington’s in a mood?” She asks, not waiting for a response before she goes on, flipping through her piles as she explains, “Henry’s out at a breakfast meeting that is  _ not _ to be interrupted and sent me on some wild goose chase looking for expense reports from like ten years ago to give to you with a bunch of other crap. Honestly I don't even think he's in a meeting, I know no one talked to me about it and Henry knows he's not supposed to make his own appointments because he always overbooks.” 

Martha barely stops for a breath, sweeping what she needs to one side and what Ben needs to another and everything else into what looks like four other piles. “Figures he just doesn't want me to make him call John his damn self to cancel lunch.” 

“John?” Is the only thing Ben can get in edgewise, and it’s enough to keep her going as he reads through the labels she sorts. 

“His son,” she sighs, “he's always good about it, but I swear Henry makes him schedule lunch through me and then cancels on him every time. Not that either of them ever seem to mind. John usually just has me connect him over to Alex - you’ve Alex Hamilton right? - he has me connect him over to Alex, they went to college together, one the reasons Alex got hired here in the first place, among  _ other  _ reasons y’know, anyway.” There's a pause for a breath as she turns to check whatever list she has as Ben deftly slides a file marked  _ TEST VII/II  _ over to the pile in front of him, tucking it into the middle of his stack. She turns back around, too distracted by her own story to notice the change. “Anyway, he says he’ll just grab drinks with Alex after work, might as well see someone when he's in town, but you have to admit it's depressing, right?” 

“Oh yeah,” he admits, and she gives him another tired smile. 

“You're all set,” she says and Ben scoops his pile into his arms. 

“Good luck,” he tells her, and he at least means it a little. She doesn’t stop him, but he hears her swearing behind him and mumbling something about forgetting a file. 

He walks faster, ignoring the near-constant buzz of his phone in his pocket. He drops them onto his desk, making the smallest show of checking the calendar, schedule, and clock while he positions himself between the camera and the files. If he does it quick, he can have Nate check the tapes to be sure. 

It takes some maneuvering, but under the pretense of a clumsy move for Washington’s schedule, Ben elbows the whole damn thing off. 

At least two people poke their heads out of their cubicles at the sound but no one bothers to get up. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, loud enough for anyone too close to hear, and drops to his knees to sweep them up. He keeps his back to the camera, batting the lifted file under his desk and stacking the ones that scattered to pick them back up. Ben heaves himself to his feet, feeling for the first time in quite some time: a little accomplished. 

“What kept you?” Washington asks, the moment Ben steps foot into his office, fully dashing that little spot of enjoyment. He doesn’t even look up from his computer screen or stop typing. Ben just puts his stack down on the cleared corner of Washington’s desk and folds his hands behind his back again.

“My mistake, sir, I ran into some troubles.”

“You ran into troubles getting me expense reports?”

“I spilled them, sir. I left them on my desk to make sure I wouldn’t be interrupting a meeting and I knocked them off.”

Now he stops, glancing at the pile with its papers sticking out and a few bent corners. Then at Ben, with a quirked brow and something that might be a little closer to a smirk than nothing. “That’s fine. Did you inform Ms. Dandridge that I’d like to meet her for a late lunch?”

“Yes, sir, I left a note with her secretary that you changed your meeting to three, at the same location.”

“Change it to one, and to that sushi places she likes. Call ahead. I’d like a quiet table on the second level - somewhere in the back.” 

Deep breaths, Ben, deep breaths. “Of course, sir.”

By the time he gets home, after two arguments (one with the staff of the restaurant and another with Ms. Dandridge's secretary) he can feel the ache in his head matching the one in his feet in perfect succession. He remembers the food, but not to check his messages until he’s nearly at the door of their apartment. 

It’s some long chain that sums up, rather delicately, to please would, the next time Ben sends Nate to view footage of Washington getting blown in his office by his former intern, someone at least  _ warn  _ him first. He grunts at his phone and fishes out his keys. 

“Fuck of a day,” is the first thing he says - before Nate can even ask. He hands him the bag and heads right for the couch, fitting himself between a laptop and the arm and immediately letting his head fall back, arm draping across his face to keep out the harsh lighting. “You find anything out about France?”

“No audio, but he was for sure calling the assistant he had before you.”

“How do you know?” He doesn’t lift his arm off his eyes.

“Only person Georgie would call in France. If he was calling Bangkok or Berlin or London or something, I’d be more concerned but - Gilbert du Motier got married two days ago, dude was probably sending some regards to whatever.” He tells him this between mouthfuls of food, and the couch dips when he joins him. “Did you get the file?”

Now he lifts to peek out, a little suspicious, “The testing one?”

“The one off your computer.”

“Fuck, no, I forgot. Sorry - there was a file I lifted off the CFO’s assistant's desk. It’s testing data for the Gold Project.”

Nate pauses and lifts a brow at him. “Gold Project?”

“Yeah, Ag. I’ve been calling it that in my head. Easier to remember. Why did you need something off my computer anyway?”

Okay, now he’s more lively. Nate darts up from the couch, mile-a-minute mouth speeding off with him. “Okay, so since you don’t have a file I can more easily attach it to we just have to be careful with this one, okay? It’s not gonna do any damage or get anything yet it’s just… a little empty trojan horse. Just to make sure I’ve got everything right and we’re not gonna come up one any walls or alarms while my name is signed to something.”

“Wait does this-”

“All you need to do is plug it in, easy easy easy - you do at least have your thumb drive, right?” He only pauses to grab it when Ben offers it, “That I’ll need so it’s not suspicious at all. I can hide it as a Word document to make it look like you’re just opening something new-”

“Nate are you trying to tell me you’ve got it?”

His feet don’t ache anymore and if his head is still throbbing, he can’t feel it. Nate plugs it in and taps around, a wicked grin across his features. There’s a buzz of adrenaline in his veins and Jesus he feels like he’s nineteen and stealing cars again - if anything for just a moment. 

Nate dangles the drive by the keychain. “Our ticket to Barbados.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhm. My B?

**Author's Note:**

> A new endeavor for all of us, a little more of a darker flavor of Ben who's actually good at spying. 
> 
> Ask me questions about Corvids or other projects on [Tumblr](http://williamsburg-wench.tumblr.com/)


End file.
